Where are your ohs?

The title refers to the Official Rules of Blogging, which require that there be a minimum of two ohs and two exes swimming in the print at all times. As my team consists of only exes, the implication is that an Officer of the Blaw (portmanteau of 'Blog' & 'Law', pronounced 'Blah'), asks me at gunpoint: "Where are your ohs?" (Sorry; that's an inside joke that barely even makes sense to those of us who've watched this entire entry — now, seeing how few laughs it earned from my readership, I wish I had chosen my alternate title instead; therefore let the following composition be renamed: "All ties at the end of playtime are broken by a shootout.")

Obligatory image

Below is the next page from my book of X-Rated Drawing Prompts. (The last page appeared back on April 13; I've been posting these prompt drawings less frequently as of late, due to a rapidly waning interest.) This one, like too many of my recent efforts, demonstrates why I hate to draw with a ballpoint pen — its prompt, pre-printed in the upper left corner (quite small) was "Racetrack". The piece is valued at five thousand dollars.

Dear diary,

Now I’m cured. Let’s say that I’m cured: I’m as healthy as a newborn rhinoceros. And the system is not set against me. Opportunity has been spread out before me like a banquet: Now what should I do?

Let’s take the first life that comes along. (To clarify: I’m imagining what type of relation I’d like to have with the world, ideally; that is, if infinite options are open.) I would like to drive a mail truck. Not the big tractor-trailers that roar across the land at breakneck speed; no, I mean the little boxy white things that scoot around delivering ads. Or, if motorized transport returns to extinction, then I’ll strap a canvas mailbag over my shoulder and simply walk from house to house, throughout the neighborhood. (I have a fondness for neighborhoods.)

This entry is already escaping me. I woke up thinking: OK, you’ve gotta stop letting the world scare you so much (I am faced with the task of making many repairs to my dilapidated house; hence my fear of all that follows) — the walls & water-pipes & floorboards & doors & windows are not out to get you: they don’t even care about you; they’re utterly indifferent — therefore act as if you’re invincible, and in no time you’ll find that you’ve truly become invincible! and then you will die. I hope that explains my opening remarks. (“Now I’m cured,” etc.) Yet my first thot, on contemplating what I’d really like to be doing with myself (if it’s truly true that I’m well & only ASSUMING that I’m sick becuz the Archon of Hypochondria keeps meddling with my constitution), is that the life of a postman sounds appealing. This must be due to the fact that, during my formative years, I watched many episodes of Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood; and a regular character of that kids’ show was Mr. McFeely, the delivery man, who was kind & gentle — at least he appeared so whenever the cameras were on — and, each time he stopped by, Mr. Rogers was happy to see him. That’s what I would like to be: a fellow whom others are always happy to see.

But obviously I’m not suited for mail delivery — first of all, I hate driving; and yet even if I were to walk my route, I’m not good with attack dogs.

What happens is that, when you’re initially fantasizing about it, you imagine your dream existence as panning out perfectly, with zero obstacles; but then, when you actually set in motion the life that you ordered, you encounter a million pitfalls that you never would’ve anticipated, such as the fact that every house on your route keeps a vicious beast that lunges to bite your hand when you reach toward the mail slot. Also, instead of friendly faces of loving people greeting you with a smile because they’re genuinely happy to see you when you arrive, in reality, you end up being confronted at every address by ornery drunkards who are all agitated by your presence. Abused spouses, and those who abuse them. Yes, everyone who receives U.S. mail is either a victim or a victimizer: that’s what I’ve learned, from my time at the Post Office. And no one’s not perpetually drunk and annoyed.

So forget carrying mail. I’ll seek out something less demanding.

Maybe I’ll buy a sports team. That at least I could do while still in my pajamas. Let me count my cash... hmm, it seems that I have enough to hire seven players. Is there a sport whose teams only need about seven players? Maybe volleyball or badminton? Cuz I don’t wanna have to deal with more than a handful of employees.

Great idea: I’ll purchase an inner-tube-water-polo team. That’s five players plus one goalie. Then I’ll hire a fine coach: I’ll get the best — why splurge on cookware and skimp on the chef? — and she will take my team to the championships.

Now that I own a coach and a team, I’ll be able to email suggestions to my coach during the season, about tips and tactics that I believe will help our team play better. My coach can either take my suggestions to heart, or leave them unheeded: I’ll stress that I’m not attempting to be a backseat driver—God forbid!—it’s just that, being the owner, I can’t help but care about the quality of my own players’ playing, and I watch all their scrimmages intently, for I have a vested interest — I have skin in the game: literally! (or would that still be figuratively?) — so, by offering these notes about the pros and cons that I detect in each of our respective team members’ performances, I only mean to be helpful, to make the world a better place.

And whether we win or lose each game of the season, I’ll always take my team out for pizza afterwards: it’ll be our tradition. Or, actually, not pizza but mashed potatoes and meatballs, with some sort of gravy (its flavor should vaguely resemble beef stroganoff); but we’ll go to a diner that makes really excellent vegan meatballs, so that I can tease the carnivores on my team, saying:

“How’d you like the meal?”

& when they say “It was good,” I’ll then spring the shocking news upon them:

“Those were vegan-balls! Can you believe it?”

& the meat-lover will appear incredulous and say “I’m in shock: I’ve never loved any non-meat dish so much: that tasted exactly like flesh and blood; I wonder how they do it!”

Then I’ll explain:

“The short-order cook is really good at her job: I actually own this establishment too. (I own most of the shops in this area.) I hand-pick all my chefs, sports-team coaches, and upper management. And I pay them well, so that they deliver results.”

This nightly exchange about the high quality of the vegan substitutes served at my after-hours diner will never grow old.

Furthermore (if I may be permitted to continue this romance), I’d get to know each player personally. Upon meeting her family, I’d make such a favorable impression that eventually her children would learn to address me as Savior Victorio (North American slang for “father usurper”). I’d always bring gifts when I visit. I’d ingratiate myself so thoroughly with each of the family members that there’d be no favor they’d ever dare refuse to grant unto me. For example: say I were to lose control of my bike while riding past their house, so that I swerve into their driveway, thus alarming their dog, who lunges forth and mauls me — I could simply ring the doorbell and ask one of the children to lend me five dollars so that I can purchase some sponges from the convenience shop nearby to sponge up the gore, and they’d comply with my request. (The shop down the road is the ONLY property I’ve not yet managed to acquire.)

*

Was that stupid, to imagine myself as a successful entrepreneur? I wish I knew what type of nonsense appeals to people.

CLOSING REFLECTIONS
on what I let loose above:

The concept of delivering mail probably represents my desire to proselytize bystanders. And the dream of owning a sports team stems from my wish to find my place in popular culture (to my mind, pop cult = sporting event), but the fact that I painted myself as an OWNER (a god, basically), so that I’m even taller than the coach, establishes that I’m the most qualified control-freak: so all those “Suggestions to improve the team’s playing” that I emailed to Victoria probably should be forwarded right back to ME, with a carbon copy sent to our LORD in heaven, so that he can remain in the loop:

• Jenny is doing a great job in general, but I noticed that she has a slight problem with getting caught holding, hitting, splashing, and dunking the enemy. I suggest that she work on making her smooth moves deniable.
• Rachael is good when she’s executing a free throw, but in general she hogs the ball and needs to concentrate more on teamwork — that is: she should pass the ball to other players more often. This might help our team win. (That’s only a suggestion.)
• Melanie has become adept at swatting the ball out of her opponent’s hand; and she’s going a great job in general. I almost don’t even have any recommendations to improve her game play. Maybe just remind her that tube-to-tube contact is permitted. (I’m hinting that she could be a little more aggressive in that respect.)
• Shalon, I’ve noticed, keeps deliberately holding the ball to delay the game. This is illegal. Remind her of that. (But only if you feel naturally inclined to do so.) Tell her that, altho I will not revoke her tenure if she treats the above suggestion as ignorable, we DO have a pizza party coming up next Thursday, after the game, and there’s a seat at my right which could be hers IF she pleases me. Otherwise I might reserve this award for Kim.
• Kim seems to me to be our best player: she consistently scores the most goals; and she makes sure all her shots are legal, and that they completely cross the goal line. Moreover, she always remains in her tube after each goal is scored. This behavior is praiseworthy.

P.S.

If our team owns any other players, I am unaware of them. So keep up the good work.

Yours faithfully,
Bryan